


The Waves

by shittershutter



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 02:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11980245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: Tommy thinks about the waves rocking him as the man’s curls wrap around his fingers, but these are not the cold, angry waves from his nightmares, the ones that take everything he knows away.





	The Waves

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授翻】The waves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12190428) by [psychomath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomath/pseuds/psychomath)



> *** A follow-up to Soundless: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11860923
> 
> *** Apparently, I love Tommy/Gibson. It's time to admit it. 
> 
> *** Unbetad (sorry)

Alex's girl, one of them, teaches Tommy to pronounce it. He is careful with every letter like it is a magic spell he has to get right. Like things will go terribly wrong if he does not. 

He slides the piece of paper with the name Gibson has scribbled only for him to see back into his pocket. 

"It's nice for you to try and help your friend like this," she says, touching Tommy's hand. He wonders if Gibson's accent is similar, long vowels, a soft nasal flare on top, some odd words here and there. 

You just have to keep your mouth softer, rounder, he reminds himself and blushes at the implication.

"Would you like a baguette?" the girl asks when all three of them gather at the table.

"Oh, he would," Alex answers instead. "Tommy here is so very much into baguettes; he'd make you ashamed."

Tommy slaps his shoulder, a practiced move -- not the head with the deep, fleshy-colored scars that cut through the hair -- but Alex just snorts louder, delighted with himself. 

"Not even my size," Tommy mumbles, picking at the last few inches of the loaf that gets thrown in front of him.

"Well, sorry to disappoint. Everyone has to work with what they got."

There is a short pause of them staring at each other and waiting for who is going to laugh first -- it's the game they play for years -- and Tommy's almost always the loser, but they give in at the same time, snickering, no competition here. 

Alex is rubbing the deepest scar just above his left eyebrow when they are done, Tommy is adjusting his leg and himself on the chair. By the feeling of it, it is going to snow. 

* * * 

Tommy calls Gibson by the name that very night, as soon as the older man gets him naked, gets him hot and breathless and maybe his move should've been more calculated given how much hope he has put into it. 

But there is a reason why Alex would go on scouting missions while Tommy would stay in the trenches doing his best and shooting chaotically in the right direction. The strategy has never been his strongest suit. 

He whispers the name; it just slips out because it's been hanging on his tongue the entire day. Then he repeats it over and over like a prayer as it makes his chest expand. 

He is breathless and lightheaded with it as Gibson's thrusts knock the air out of him. 

Then Gibson freezes and pulls out so abruptly he hurts them both. He does not move any further away, but he is gone, eyes unblinking, unseeing. 

"What..." Tommy starts, panicking, eyes darting between the pale, beloved face, his left hand gathered into a tight fist, his right one, clawlike, digging into the tender meat of Tommy's inner thigh. 

It is probably painful, but Tommy's gone cold all over so he can't really feel it. 

Gibson shakes his head a few times like he tries to get what Tommy has just said out of his ears. 

He grabs Tommy's hand forcefully then, finally looking at him, not through, shakes his head again and mouths: "No."

Tommy curses under his breath at his own idiocy. The stupid romantic notion that he can unravel something as complex as the man who came back to him from god knows what circle of hell with a magic word seems so inadequate in the cold, merciless light of reality.

He closes his eyes just to get away from Gibson's tortured expression. Through his panicked breaths, he hears waves washing over the beach with its broken machinery and broken people. 

"He is dead," it occurs to him. The French boy with the kind eyes and a bright smile, his memories and aspirations, his life and the people he knew -- all gone, taken by the water. 

The name he said in a moment of passion, in a naive effort to bring him back is gone with him. 

He never knew the boy, although he's sure that if he did he'd like him a lot. The man he met, the man he got back after the war is Gibson; it's as simple as that. 

Tommy snaps his eyes open as he feels hot tears pouring down his skin, not his own, but they hurt like they are. 

Gibson has let go of him now, hands limp at his sides, looking so far away.

"I'm so, so sorry..." Tommy whispers. Apologizing is all he does since he gets back. He feels stupid, inadequate to participate in life itself most of the time and now that feeling crushes him. 

"I'll call you whatever you want." He reaches up, his useless leg restricting every move, so he has to wrap his hands around Gibson's neck and rear himself up, pressing himself against the man as tight as his body allows. 

"Let it be Gibson; I don't care..." His mouth is against the man's shoulder, and he kisses all the skin he can reach in an attempt to warm him up.

Time goes by and he hangs against Gibson all of his muscles screaming from the unnatural angle and moments before he is ready to fall back to give his hip a rest two hands circle his waist and he is lowered down to the mattress with Gibson on top of him. 

* * *

In retrospect, if Tommy knew it'd be this easy he'd fling himself down a flight of stairs a couple of times to get the job done. 

He is leaving the small corner store next to his house with a loaf of bread under his arm when he is grabbed by the shoulder, turned around and punched in the face. 

It's not even a proper punch but there is a surprise to it, and he still has one leg to balance himself with so he goes down like a war hero he is, arms flying. 

The man stands above him, the bread in his hand now. He looks distinctly like a lovely older woman, the owner, who is nowhere to be seen today. 

It occurs to Tommy, a blurry picture in his head coming into focus, slowly exposing all the details, that he's been taking the bread here the same way he does just now, for years without paying. 

He knows this because he comes specifically for the bread and has no money on him. 

The lovely woman always smiles, wishes him a good day and waves without saying anything else. For years, he thinks in horror. 

He pays if he buys something else with it; he remembers her helping him to pack the goods and making a small talk, but as for the brown loaf itself, the one that looks just like his daily ration back in the trenches -- he just comes in like he used to, takes it and marches -- wobbles -- away to make room for other people in line. 

Blood rushes to his face, his body suddenly heavier than it's ever been and he is seriously considering to stay on the floor with people stepping around him when he hears the sound of his name. 

It sounds strange, uneven like every sound is spoken with different volume.

It is also coming from Gibson who should be waiting for him right outside but is suddenly here, kneeling, grabbing at his sleeves. 

His face is flushed, and he is palming at Tommy's skull, fingers under the hair because given the circumstances Tommy's face-splitting grin looks like a head trauma symptom. 

He can't do anything about it, doesn't want to interfere with the flow of sounds out of Gibson's mouth, drinking it in. 

Then it ends. Gibson throws some change out of his pocket at the man's feet making him reach down for it, hauls Tommy up and leads him out.

* * * 

"It sounded good," Tommy whispers, cheeks still hurting from smiling like a maniac. "You did."

He'd prefer him less worried and more blissed out, but he can't be picky now. He'll just take what he can get.

Gibson looks away, sheepish, digging his face into the pillow and then he opens his mouth, throat clicking painfully, and closes it again. 

Tommy shakes his head. "Don't overexert yourself. I'm not this greedy."

They lie some more on their sides, facing each other, and Gibson presses his own hand it to the center of his chest and then to Tommy's, keeping it there. 

"Love you," Tommy says back, words coming out easily. 

He intertwines their fingers together and holds them against his skin, thumb stroking the back of Gibson's palm.

He can feel the bones of his fingers, crooked and uneven in places where they were broken and grew back together. 

It's a conversation they can't have with their little gestures, looks, and notes, of course. If there is a reason for Tommy to dread Gibson's voice coming back, it's this. 

They'll talk about the scars shaped like outlandish sea creatures that cover Gibson's skin, his ribs that are just like his fingers, holding together but off, bent out of shape slightly. 

It'll take some time but they will. 

“My intimate life is fucking royal, mate,” he tells Alex once when the other man is drunk enough to inquire. He doesn’t elaborate just to have a moment of his friend being somewhat proud of him. 

What he means by that is his leg doesn’t let him be particularly adventurous, so he just lies on his back like a fucking prince as Gibson cushions his sore spots with pillows, arranges and spreads him as wide as he can be spread. And then Tommy just takes everything Gibson has to give him. 

It's heartbreaking how damaged both of their bodies are, how hard it is to find the right angles and apply the right amount of pressure. But as soon as they do come together, they just fit. 

“Get on with it, yeah?” Tommy says against Gibson’s lips and tightens the good leg around the man. Gibson does. 

Tommy presses his lips to the sweet hot mouth to drink the vibrating quiet moans coming out of it. His heart swells — because he is the reason Gibson makes the sounds and he is allowed to hear them, too. He can have them now, quiet and loud, and he treasures every one of them. 

Tommy lets himself talk for both of them. He is self-conscious at first, mortified to sound like those lewd magazines with sticky pages they used to pass to one another on sleepless nights back in the trenches. But it’s not like Gibson is going to tell anyone about it. 

He tells him how full he feels, hard and turned inside out with each slick drag of Gibson’s cock, how he is going to come just like this, both hands still firmly wrapped around Gibson's shoulders.

He cries out with each deep thrust and tells Gibson he loves him again and again, breathless. He’s said it before so now it counts no matter how delirious he feels. 

Gibson echoes him, whimpers spilling out. They are quiet but unmistakably there, soaking up Tommy’s chest where he drops his head when he can’t hold it upright anymore. 

Tommy thinks about the waves rocking him as the man’s curls wrap around his fingers, but these are not the cold, angry waves from his nightmares, the ones that take everything he knows away. 

These are dull green as Gibson’s eyes, salty as Gibson’s skin and they sway with him, holding him on the surface when he lets go and allows them.

Gibson whispers his name when he opens his eyes again, his neck and jaw straining to get the sound out. It’s uneven and strange, and it’s the sweetest sound Tommy’s ever heard. 

Tommy lets out an ugly sob, tears washing over his face, salty and warm like those waves he loves. Gasps tear his chest open, snot trickling down the jaw. He just lets it wreck him. 

He whacks Gibson in the shoulder when it passes, and he catches his breath again. 

“Wanker. Have you said it five minutes ago, I’d come my brains out. I mean I still did but can you imagine…”

Gibson snorts and pats Tommy’s softening cock apologetically. Then he gives it a squeeze — a promise — and spoons behind, his face in Tommy’s hair. 

Tommy plays with the man's broken fingers and listens to his breathing as it is slowing down, and he thinks — with the skin of his cheeks a bit tight with the salt of his tears — he wonders if the time he was waiting for, the time when everything starts to get just a bit better has finally come.


End file.
